As useless, to the moles and to the bats.
They now are deemed the faithful, and are praised, Who constant only in rejecting thee,
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal,
And quit their office for their error's sake. Blind, and in love with darkness! yet even these Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man! So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, And what they will. All pastors are alike To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none. Two gods divide them all-Pleasure and Gain: For these they live, they sacrifice to these, And in their service wage perpetual war
With conscience and with thee. Lust in their hearts, And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting down The features of the last degenerate times, Exhibit every lineament of these.
Come then, and added to thy many crowns, Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest, Due to thy last and most effectual work, Thy word fulfilled, the conquest of a world!
He is the happy man, whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not her's, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,
And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird, That flutters least, is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,
Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer-None. His warfare is within. There unfatigued His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means, That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an incumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rendering none,
His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works, From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of wo, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast what few that win it can, That if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and for decorum sake
Can wear it even as gracefully as she.
She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed, Like an unburied carcase tricked with flowers, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfilled, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,
Beneath the turf, that I have often trod.
It shall not grieve me then, that once, when called To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,
I played awhile, obedient to the fair,
With that light task: but soon, to please her more, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; Roved far, and gathered much: some harsh, 'tis true, Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,
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